Oakwood Collegiate Institute - Oracle Yearbook (Toronto Ontario, Canada)

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IT 4- fTERARY 53

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' 1lif T oes 1046 ST. CLAIR AYE. W. TORONTO 10 ONT. PHONE S23 - 1393 Indian Totem of Maskar Tribe Anyone knowing the whereabouts of the perpetrator of this atrocity keep it down ya hear! The editor is in enough trouble already. Guidebook to a Challenging Career This booklet will show you the way to a rewarding career in banking. For ro( - copy, simply drop a line to the Staff Department, Bank of Montreal, P.O . Box 6002, Montreal, and ask tor a copy of Career Oppor- tunities at Canada ' s First Bank . If you prefer, you can call in at your nearest branch for a cop . There is no obligation. Bank of Montreal npi St. Clair Ave. West Robina Ave. E. A. SCOTT, Manager FOUL SAFE 52

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THE HOLY STREAMS A range of mountains stood in the misty distance like grand ladies — their folded skirts falling to the ground and their shoulders covered with scarves of clouds. How simple it now was to conceive of the polytheism of the Indians, and how beautifully sensitive — of course these must have a soul, of course they must live. He sat down on the warm damp earth at the top of the hill. Sliding off his pack, he took out his lunch and began to eat while a warm, sweet wind caressed his face and played with his hair. He stuffed the orange peels back into the paper bag and put it into his pack. It almost seemed sacrilegious to leave them here and mark this land with mechanical man who no longer belonged in this great spiritual womb of nature. Oh, how lovely to revel in ignorance. Then is nature loved and not held an enemy — something to be conquered. He took one last look at the now abandoned ski-lodge, a black cancer in the valley below, then turned his back and walked down the far side of the hill. He walked to a small valley, still packed with snow, and trotted along the dirty whiteness getting his sneakers cold and wet. The snow ' s end came to the foot of another hill. Going up it was wet and steep, the crystal ribbons of melting snow rushing past the white alpine lilacs and red Indian paint pots — flowers of spring. Panting, he rested at the top. He took off his sneakers and peeled his wet socks off to set them in the sun. It was cold up here, no birds sang — only the wind blew and flowers lived out the magic circle of life. He lit a cigarette, almost a metaphor he thought and laughed at its absurdity. He couldn ' t see the town from here — only the mountains. These tangible mountains dwarfed him, but not to insignificance. He could feel mean- ingful and alive, not as an atom in the great mass of divine purpose. From the top of this ridge he saw a turquoise lake set in the base of a great mountain whose top was covered by an immense snow field like a temple ' s dome. He ran down the slope and over a small rise. There lay his lake. A few stunted hemlocks leaned over the water and turned their tops up in supplication. His lake! A feeling of satisfaction in discovery filled his heart. Perhaps now he was standing where no one had ever stood before! But a bit farther on he found two opened beer bottles and poured out the brown liquid with its complement of drowned insects. Next to the lake itself he found a rusty mattress and a few black, scorched beams. Cheap broken china lay scattered around. A feeling of complete loneliness grasped his heart. He looked at the weeds inside the old foundations. A cloud passed Ihe sun and even now the weeds seemed closer and closer around him. George M. Iwaniuk 13F SERGIO MARZOTTO 54